


looking for the echoes of your fingers

by mousselinegateau



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 07:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4010569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousselinegateau/pseuds/mousselinegateau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why are you here?"</p><p>Thor laughs. “You are the clever one, brother. Why do you think?”</p><p>“I think nothing,” Loki says petulantly.</p><p>“Then you are the fool, not I.”</p><p>Or, four times Thor and Loki share a bed because of Thor, and one time it's because of Loki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	looking for the echoes of your fingers

i.

Loki crouches under his bed, peeks through his fingers at the shadows cast on the opposite wall by the lightning crashing overhead. The thunder cracks a few moments later. It makes his windowpane rattle, and he squeaks in fright, scrambling backwards until he feels the stone of his bedchamber wall pressing against his back.

“Loki, come out from there,” his mother says patiently. She kneels by the bed, heedless of her fine skirts, and stretches out a hand. “It’s time for bed.”

“No.” He knows she can’t leave with him under the bed, has already caused her to tarry almost a quarter-hour in his bedchamber. “I’m not sleepy.”

“Please, Loki.” There’s a note of warning in Frigga’s voice that he’s too young to ignore. “You will have me late for the banquet.”

He reluctantly crawls out from under the bed and falls into her open arms. He buries his face in her shoulder, inhaling the sweet jasmine scent that she uses in her hair, and feels the warmth of her hands stroking his back. He’s quiet as she tucks him into bed, but when she turns to leave, he clings to her hand and refuses to let go.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, bending to kiss him on the brow. “Darling, tell me what it is.”

Loki shakes his head, because now he can’t. She sighs and touches his shoulder gently, and then he hears the swishing of her skirts and the _snick_ of the door as she closes it behind her. He pulls the covers over his head, but that does little to muffle the sound of the rattling windowpanes or the raging storm outside. He’s about to crawl back under his bed when the door creaks open.

“Let me under the covers,” Thor grumbles, and Loki shivers as cold feet press against his legs. Their chambers are right next to each other, so Thor must not yet have gone to bed. Loki shifts to make room so that his brother can settle himself more comfortably in the bed, lets Thor press up close next to him, and then turns so that he’s facing the wall.

Thor is uncharacteristically quiet, and after a few minutes it’s Loki who breaks the silence. “Why are you here?”

He feels rather than hears his brother laugh, a quiet exhalation of breath against his hair. “You are the clever one, brother. Why do you think?”

“I think nothing,” Loki says petulantly.

“Then you are the fool, not I.”

Loki laughs despite himself. Thor has always been able to make him laugh – it’s part of what makes him so insufferable. He turns to face Thor. The two of them lie face-to-face in the darkness, their faces illuminated briefly now and again by the pale lightning streaming in through the curtains, their noses almost touching. Thor works a hand free from the covers, kneads the knot of muscle at the base of Loki’s neck. Loki can feel himself relax.

“There’s no need to fear a thunderstorm,” Thor whispers. “You know that.”

“Of course I do.” Loki huffs. “I’m not so much younger than you.”

“Then you should know who controls thunder.”

It’s uncanny how the thunder chooses that moment to crack again, and Loki lets out a sound that’s definitely _not_ a squeak. He buries his face in his brother’s chest, and Thor gently strokes the back of his neck, his touch lighter even than their mother’s. Loki will never understand all the warriors who thump Thor on the back and tell him that his hands are made for gripping a weapon. Thor is brash and careless, but when he cares to put his mind to it, his hands are far more delicate and precise than even Loki’s ever could be.

“Who controls the thunder?” Thor asks again. He can be so careful, so gentle, when he wants to be. When he recognizes the need for gentleness.

“You do,” Loki whispers, voice muffled.

“I do,” Thor agrees, “and there’s no cause to fear anything that I control.”

“ _I_ do not control it.”

“It comes out the same, for you and I,” Thor says. “I control it, and so there’s no need for you to be afraid.”

“Why not make it _stop_?”

“I can’t ask it to be other than what it is,” Thor says. The words are parroted from their tutor, who repeats them at the beginning of every class. Loki doesn’t really understand what it means, knows that Thor doesn’t either.

“Why not?” he asks, because he knows that Thor has no response.

Thor is quiet for several long moments, and the only sound in the room is the rumble of thunder and the patter of rain. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “But it would feel _wrong_.”

Loki closes his eyes, burrows further into Thor’s chest. “Thor?”

“Mhm?”

“I hate it. The thunder, I mean.”               

“I know,” Thor says. “I know. But it won’t ever harm you. I won’t let it.”

He sounds sincere. Loki pulls back so that he can look at his brother’s face. He always knows when Thor isn’t being entirely truthful, and he can tell that Thor, right now, wide-eyed and unsmiling, is very much in earnest. “Promise?” he asks. He believes that Thor can protect him – Thor has said that he can, after all – but Loki wants the reassurance all the same.

“Promise,” Thor says firmly, and tucks his cold toes against Loki’s leg.

 

 **ii.**  

Loki watches from the shadows of the throne room as his brother stamps his foot in fury. “It’s not true!” Thor shouts. He’s a child still, his golden hair snipped neatly below the ear, but he’s far too old to be making such a scene in public. The delegates from the other realms look dismayed and uncertain, the court is whispering amongst itself, and Frigga has half-risen from her throne, but Loki knows that his brother has eyes only for the figure in the other great throne. “Father, tell me it’s not true!”

Odin doesn’t even spare him a glance. “Stand aside,” he says coolly. “If you would address me as your father, you would do well to remember your position as my son, and what that entails.”

“ _Sire_ – ”

But Odin has already beckoned to one of the women from Niflheim, turning deliberately from his son. Loki draws in his breath as Thor clenches a hand on the hammer at his belt – it’s a ceremonial weapon, little more than a child’s toy compared to the weapon that will one day be his, but the anger in his face is still frightening. Loki watches as Thor struggles briefly with himself, exhaling only when Thor lets out a muttered oath and steps to the side.

Frigga moves down the steps of the dais and puts her hand on Thor’s shoulder. He shrugs off her touch. Loki sees the hurt cross her face as Thor turns his back to her and strides down the length of the hall. He checks abruptly as he nears the double-doors and notices Loki standing in the shadows, then growls and storms out of the hall.

“Go after him,” his mother says as she comes up behind him, but Loki is already moving.

He finds Thor standing beneath the archway of the courtyard. Rainwater is dripping from the eaves, and Loki can hear the distant rumbling of gathering thunder. He walks silently toward Thor, turning over in his mind what he will say first. He knows it won’t be easy to coax his brother into a more forgiving mood, to make him see _why_ Odin sent a contingent of warriors to rescue Loki and Thor but did not order them to save the village that burned down around them. It won’t be easy, but he knows that he can do it. Thor is his brother, after all, and Loki knows him better than anyone.

He’s mere steps away when he finally realizes that his brother is not alone.

Sif stands beside Thor, close enough to touch but not touching. She has forgone her customary tunic for a lovely gown of blue silk, and her cornsilk hair is uncovered and hanging loose, but she doesn’t seem to care that both are getting wet. She has eyes only for Thor. Her voice is a low, sweet murmur to his furious muttering, and it seems that Thor is actually listening to her. Their heads are bent together, smooth gold against smooth gold, and Loki feels something clench in his stomach and rise up in his throat.

The words spill from his lips before he can consider the wisdom of his actions, a jet of green smoke shooting from his fingers to surround Sif. She and Thor break apart immediately. Sif screams and stumbles into a marble pillar, her hands already flying to her hair, but Thor doesn’t look in her direction.

Instead, he turns to stare at Loki. He doesn’t speak – he looks too shocked for words, for the moment at least, but Loki can see the anger narrowing his eyes and burning in his cheeks, and he knows that the words will not be long in coming.

So Loki vanishes. It’s what he does best.

He goes to his bedchamber, because Sif is sure to get Odin involved in this and the library will be the first place they look. Loki isn’t afraid of the consequences of his actions; he’ll accept whatever punishment his father feels he merits, he just doesn’t want to embroil himself in that at present. It crosses his mind that he has, in fact, done has his mother wanted. He has mended the rift between Thor and Odin; no doubt they will be united against Loki, the conflict between father and son in open court forgotten in light of Loki’s transgression.

He ensconces himself in the covers and picks up a book.

Thor throws open the door without knocking, his boots striking sparks on the floor. “Loki,” he snarls.

Loki takes the moment to compose himself before turning to face his brother. “I wagered Father would find me first.”

“How unlike you to be wrong,” Thor snaps. He crosses the room and sits heavily down on the bed. “If your quarrel was with me, there was no need to target Sif.”

“Rather late to be playing the gallant prince, is it not, when you have already failed to protect her?”

Color blooms in Thor’s smooth cheeks. He’s recently taken up shaving; he can easily ignore Loki’s teasing, because both of them know that it will be years yet before Loki will need to do the same. “I didn’t know I needed to protect against _you_ ,” Thor says.

Loki flinches. He gropes for a quick response. “Gallantry would have you at Sif’s side until she wearied of your presence.” Too late, Loki realizes that his voice is too sharp, his words too cutting – there is too little malice there and too much bitterness.

Thor’s blue eyes narrow and he opens his mouth. Loki moves to stop him before he can say something unbearably cutting, puts his arms around Thor’s broad shoulders and tucks his head against Thor’s neck. He used to do this when they were younger, and it never failed to soothe Thor’s temper, at least temporarily. “Loki,” Thor says finally, but the edge in his voice has softened.

“Brother,” Loki says. It’s the closest he allows himself to come to an apology these days. It’s been ages since Thor last apologized to Loki, and longer still since Thor cared enough to desire an apology from Loki.

“Later.” Thor flings the word down between them like a challenge. He throws his body down on the bed, the momentum sending the goblet on the ledge next to the bed clattering to the floor. He turns from Loki, lies facing the wall, shoulders tight with tension.

The two of them do not speak. Loki perches on the edge of his bed, watching Thor as he slowly slips into sleep. His breaths are slow and steady, his lips slightly parted – he snores. It’s a soft hum in the quiet chamber, and after a brief struggle Loki lies down in the space left to him.

In the hazy moments before he falls asleep, Loki wonders how long it will be until he has Thor’s forgiveness. His brother’s temper flares quick and bright, but he is never angry with Loki for long.

Sif’s hair, gleaming black like a raven’s wing, reaches her shoulders before Thor next grins at Loki and slings his arm around Loki’s shoulders.

Loki does not forget this.

 

**iii.**

Loki leaves Sif and the Warriors Three looking for Thor in the training yards after enough time has passed that he knows they will not follow. He walks down the hallways without encountering even a servant on an errand; he can hear the muted roar of celebrations coming from the banquet hall. Everyone will be plying the warriors with drink and asking for stories of the victory at Nornheim, too drunk on victory to question the absence even of their golden prince.

Thor will not be in the training yards. Loki knows where his brother will be.

“This is my bedchamber, Thor,” he says presently.

“I know,” Thor says without looking up.

“No one will think to look for you here,” Loki says. It is meant as a jest, but there is too much truth in his words. The humor is blunted on the reminder that it has been a long time since those seeking out Thor would think to look for him in his brother’s company.

Thor does not smile. “Exactly.”

“As always, your capacity for avoiding the obvious question is astounding.”

Thor makes a sound that might be a laugh. “There must be a worthier opponent with whom you might sharpen your wits,” he says tiredly.

Loki sighs. “Why are you here?”

His brother lifts his head. He looks exhausted. His loose golden hair is wet and sweet-smelling, drenched with the honey oak-mead that Fandral had been pressing on everyone since their triumphant return. Loki can smell it even from a few paces away. He can see the lines bracketing Thor’s mouth, the shadows like bruises under his eyes. There’s blood on Thor’s face, crusted along a half-healed slash across his left cheek. He is still wearing his armor.

Thor doesn’t look infallible. He doesn’t look capable of conquering the world, of storming into an obvious trap and emerging victorious with Mjolnir held aloft to the roars of the finest warriors Asgard has to offer.

“Thor,” Loki says. In this moment, Thor looks vulnerable. Loki could break Thor, if he so desired. In this moment, Loki can admit that he loves his brother, even if that love takes a form that others might not recognize, even if Loki sometime hates that Thor can elicit such an emotion from him and leave him no recourse. He likes to be in control of his emotions – he has never been able to control how he feels about Thor.

“You and I could have died today,” Thor says in a conversational tone.

By the time Thor looks over, Loki has schooled his expression into blankness. “One hundred to two – the odds were not so biased.”

“One hundred to four,” Thor says sharply. He looks angry. “Loki, do you forget the children who rode on our saddlebows?”

Loki breathes through his nose. “I do not,” he says evenly. He does not mention the four men who died in Thor’s rescue of the children, or the countless men who would have died avenging the princes of Asgard had they fallen that day. Asgard would have burnt villages to the ground in vengeance.

“You and I could have died,” Thor says again.

Loki watches him. He doesn’t look angry anymore.

“I did not think I feared death,” Thor says quietly. He doesn’t look at Loki, stares down at his hands. “I do not know if I fear death now. But in that moment, when I saw the blade descending, before I twisted out of its path, I – I could not think about anything but how much I wanted to live.”

“Fools laugh in the face of death, Thor,” Loki says. He does not say that he too was frightened of death today, watching a blade come perilously close to his brother’s heart. He does not say that his fingers trembled as his cast his spell of darkness, allowing his brother the precious seconds to avert the blow. The two of them are gods, but they can still die.

“The men call me a hero.”

The sounds of celebration can be heard even in Loki’s bedchamber, shrouded in silence. Loki has marked how the maidens look on Thor with admiration and desire, how even the battle-hardened warriors who mocked Thor’s greenness now speak of him with grudging respect. No doubt there will be a new epic celebrating Thor’s bravery, his might, his strength, before the week is out. The bards will probably recite one at the banquet tomorrow night.

Thor drops his head once more. His shoulders shake, but he doesn’t speak. He has no skill with words, as Loki does – Thor says what he means, with no tact or thought. When he lacks the words, he lapses into silence. Loki uses silence as a weapon, but Thor falls back on silence when he has no other recourse.

“Let me clean your face,” Loki says.

Thor shakes his head.

Loki drops the washcloth onto the table and kneels before his brother. “Let me take that armor off, at least,” he says.

He takes Thor’s silence as assent, and reaches up to unbuckle one chain mail sleeve. Thor’s hands are clean enough, but there is blood and dirt caked under his short nails. It’s harder than Loki would have expected to place Thor’s hands back into his lap and move onto the pauldron. Thor sways on his feet when Loki tells him to stand up, but some color has returned to his face. By the time that Loki has finished removing his armor and pushed Thor back onto the bed, Thor’s shoulders are slumped in exhaustion.

Loki takes up the washcloth once more. If he cannot wash the blood from his brother’s face, he can at least be rid of the blood on his hands. But Thor turns aside when Loki reaches for him.

“Leave it be,” he says roughly. It is a command.

Loki goes still.

Thor sighs, a deep sigh that shudders through his body. “Brother,” he says very quietly.

Loki goes to him. With a movement so rapid it could almost be termed violent, Thor buries his face in the crook of Loki’s shoulder. He has most of his weight on Loki – it’s unsettling and makes it difficult for Loki to draw breath, but it is not uncomfortable. Loki can feel the warmth of Thor’s breaths against the sensitive skin of his neck, the rise and fall of Thor’s chest against his own.

Thor looks up at Loki with something like desperation. He takes hold of Loki’s wrists, his grip hard enough to hurt. Loki does not pull away, even though he knows that Thor will release him if he tries. Their faces are so close together, their noses almost touching. “Loki – ” Thor begins.

His eyes are so blue. There’s something in them that Loki can’t quite parse, but it frightens him beyond reason. He cannot explain his fear, nor why his blood is drumming in his ears. Loki frees his wrists and pushes Thor down onto the bed with both hands. “Sleep, Thor,” he says.

Thor hesitates, then obediently closes his eyes. It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

Loki does not intend to sleep himself. He sits on the bed and watches his brother, gaze steady and unblinking. His hands grip each other hard enough to hurt, and it’s only when he glances down that he realizes that his nails have drawn blood.

He must fall asleep eventually, though, because when he wakes the sun is spilling onto his face and Thor is gone.

 

 **iv.**  

Loki shuts the door to his chamber but does not lock it. With a flick of his hand, the drapes unfurl themselves to cover the window. He does not bother lighting a candle – light will not help him. Slowly, painfully, he lowers himself to the stone floor, breathing shallowly through his nose, then gingerly brings up a hand to his mouth. For a time, he does not touch – _afraid of the pain_ , Thor would say, and that sets his determination.

He is careful, but not careful enough. The pain flares white-hot, and a cry tears itself from his lips. He cannot make a sound, of course, but the movement jars the thread that pierces his lips and binds them together. Loki tastes the warm copper-metal of blood on his tongue. The dwarves are skilled in their work, the stitching of his mouth as careful and ornate as any other display of their craftsmanship, so that Loki cannot tell by touch where the thread begins and ends.

He knows better than to try to use his magic to cut the thread – everyone in the Nine Realms would have anticipated that Loki would turn first to his magic. _Shadow-dweller_ , _magic-grubber_ , _coward, coward, coward_ – Loki can imagine all too well what is whispered behind his back. He has never caught an Asgardian warrior speaking of him in outright scorn, but he knows that is only because he is a prince of Asgard and son of Odin, and that means something, even if he will never sit on the throne.

It hurts now, but it is nothing compared to the agony of having his mouth sewn shut. The sheer pain of it almost drowned out the humiliation of the process being carried out in the hall for all of Asgard to see, a chance for them to gawk at the prince – _no, not Thor, the other one_ – to snicker quietly or exchange mocking words behind their hands. It hurts less now, but the searing pain in his mouth is still impossible to ignore.

Loki feels the tears pricking at the edges of his eyes, and of course that is the moment that Thor chooses to enter his chamber. He strides in without bothering to knock, heedless of the fact that he is the last person Loki wishes to see.

“I knew you would run here,” Thor says. His voice is gentle, but the words still sting. His golden hair is loose about his shoulders, the torques at his arms gleaming as he reaches out to cup a hand on Loki’s cheek.

Looking at him, Loki cannot help but think that Thor would never have allowed himself to be treated thus. He would never have bowed his head and submitted to the dwarves’ needle. Never mind that he was in the wrong, that he was judged to have lost a bet – Thor would have raged and fought. Thor would have had to be held down by warriors, by magic, and after he would have tried to spit curses at those who had hurt him, heedless of the thread in his mouth and the hurt he was inflicting on himself.

“The floor is cold,” Thor continues. “Sit on the bed.”

Loki lets Thor guide him onto the bed. To his surprise, Thor kneels before him on the cold ground, peering up at his bleeding mouth.

“I wish I could cut the thread,” Thor says heavily. His expression is dark. “But I do not have the power.”

It is hardly surprising, but Loki still feels the dull throb of disappointment. He drops his head, but the movement is too abrupt, and the pain flares anew as fresh blood trickles down his chin once more. Loki can feel the blood, sticky on his skin – he can sense where the old blood has dried and hardened. His skin crawls, and he itches to scrub the blood away.

“Gentle now,” Thor says. He rests his hand on Loki’s shoulder, holding him still. “You will hurt yourself.”

 _I have already_ , Loki would say, if his mouth were not bound shut.

Thor looks at him as if he heard the words nonetheless, the corners of his eyes creasing. “I know you well enough to know you would say something,” he says wryly, “but I fear I lack the cunning to know what you would say.”

Loki can think of so many things he would say in this moment, if he were able. The anger wells up hot inside him. _You would never have been punished thus_ is first. _Father would never have done this to you_ is second. And then – again and again – _how could_ you _let them treat me thus_?

Sorrow crosses his brother’s face. “You will tell me later,” he promises. “And I will listen.”

Thor might well believe his own words, but Loki knows better than to trust his brother’s promise. Thor is with Loki now, promising to listen. But later, when he is with Sif and the Warriors Three, he will be too caught up in his own pleasures to leave a thought for Loki.

Loki points to his mouth. Thor is not a fool. He will know what Loki means.

“Father said the threads must remain at least until the morrow,” Thor says. “I have talked to the dwarves and – and they are amenable to this.” He winces. Both of them can imagine Loki’s acerbic response to his poor choice of words.

Thor touches the corner of Loki’s mouth, but leaves no hurt in his wake. Loki has grown accustomed to the brother who throws his goblet onto the floor and roars for another, who laughs loudly when Loki sets himself against some visitor to Odin’s hall, who is always in the company of Sif and the Warriors Three and has time only for a rough clap on the back in greeting for Loki. It has been an age since Thor has been so careful with Loki, his rough fingertips so gentle against the mottled bruising around Loki’s mouth.

“The dwarves are fools,” Thor says softly, “to think that thread can bind your clever mouth.”

Loki freezes. Thor has closed the distance between them. Their noses are now almost close enough to touch, and Loki is reminded of how often they shared a bed as children, when they were two lonely boys who were each other’s sole and best companion. Then Thor takes Loki’s face between his hands, and Loki feels his breath catch in his throat.

The two of them are close – too close, teetering on a precipice. Loki is not afraid of dancing on the edge – he revels in it – but he fears this, because he does not know what awaits him below. Thor looks at him unsmiling, his lips parted as if he is about to speak.

Loki looks away. He cannot bear the tension in the air.

“Never mind,” Thor says. He sounds tired. “It would not be fair, for me to speak thus whilst you have no means to respond.”

It is like Thor, to insist upon fairness even in a situation like this. Loki wants to laugh at his idiocy. But Thor is still looking at him, his hand warm under Loki’s chin, so careful not to hurt Loki. Loki remembers not to nod, carefully raises his eyes to meet Thor’s instead.

“I will remove the threads for you on the morrow,” Thor says. “Let me do this for you, brother.”

He settles into the bed next to Loki, one arm thrown across Loki’s stomach to keep him from moving and injuring himself in sleep. But Loki does not sleep, the pain in his mouth  too great to allow that respite. So he lies awake through the night, watching his brother. Thor sleeps like one dead, his arm a heavy weight on the center of Loki’s body. Watching him, his chest barely rising and falling with each breath, one might well imagine him dead.

Suddenly, Loki cannot breathe. It is Thor’s damned arm on his chest, he is sure of it. He flicks his fingers and wills himself to the other side of the palace, where he perches on the outer-edge of a window and waits for morning. The sun that morning is bright – even Loki, watching the horizon for hours on end, finds that his eyes are dazzled by the light.

With the sunrise, the magic in the threads binding his lips is spent. Loki removes the threads himself, fumbling with a blade and mirror. His fingers tremble, first slippery with sweat and then sticky with blood. As the threads begin to loosen, he lets out soft, choked sobs, heedless of the fact that this will only worsen the hurt. Loki winds the freed thread about his fingers, working to remove the last of the stitches. He retches, the bitter taste of bile joining the metallic tang of blood. When at last he has finished, he leans against the cold stone of the wall and cries.

Loki has never been able to suffer in silence. As a child, he endured the taunts of the other children for crying over minor scrapes and bruises. Thor would defend Loki tirelessly, fearlessly fighting children too young to realize that it is dishonorable to fight three or four to one and that it is foolish to blacken the eye of the heir to the throne. Thor never realized that he only made things worse, confirmed to the others that Loki could not defend himself.

Loki is not one to suffer in selfless silence, but he has learned, nonetheless, not to let others hear.

 

(Thor does not go to Loki the night before his coronation. He spends the night carousing with Sif and the Warriors Three, bellowing verse upon verse of songs until the halls echo with their off-tune singing. Loki hears them pass beneath his window, his brother and his friends.

Loki knows that he could go down to join them, that Thor would call him brother and sling an arm around his shoulders and call on him to join in their singing. But he knows too how Sif and the Warriors Three would feel at his intrusion. They are too practiced at hiding their displeasure for Loki to actually see it on their faces, but he can always feel their wariness at his presence. Loki knows when he is not wanted. He knows, too, that Thor would never notice this on his brother’s behalf.

Thor has never had cause to know what it is to feel unwanted. Undesired. Passed over.

Loki remains at his window, his mind fixed on the morrow.

He loves Thor. Thor is Loki’s brother, and Loki loves Thor. These are the two constants in his life.

Thor will understand that his was an act of love.)

 

 **v.**  

After the Chitauri, after Svartalfheim, Loki does not often go to Earth. Now that he has assumed the guise of Odin and taken the throne that Thor does not want, Loki finds himself much occupied with the duties of kingship. It is long, hard work, to rebuild and strengthen the defenses breached by Malakeith and his followers, to ensure that Asgard will not be so readily broken by another attack.

The Chitauri will return, and Asgard must be ready.

It is difficult to be king – more so than Loki expected. Odin is loved by many and respected by all in Asgard. Loki is sure that there are no snide whispers or half-stifled laughter when he leaves the room, no bright, mocking glances exchanged across the hall when he speaks. His word is law, but Loki must bend those who oppose him to his will – and there are many who disagree with him. They will obey him because he is the Allfather and they must, but they do not give over their wholehearted support. Odin, Loki realizes, does not command love and undying loyalty as Thor does. Men do not give over their hearts to him.

Odin, he realizes, is much more like Loki himself than Thor.

It is harder for Loki to pull strings from the shadows as he used to, not whilst he is in the guise of the Allfather. But there is no time for Loki to weave his plans, to beguile and coax and manipulate the court. Asgard must be strengthened and the Nine Realms must be joined in alliance before the Chitauri come – as Loki knows they will. Loki finds himself falling back on magic to nudge people along.

He is expending more magic than he expected, forced to tap into stores of his magic. He replenishes himself from stores he filled as a child under Frigga’s approving gaze. The two of them had magic lessons in her private gardens, away from fearful eyes, although Thor sometimes interrupted their lessons with some news or story that he needed to tell Loki right away.

Loki remembers now that Thor always came first to him, not to his mother or his father.

His task is made more difficult still by the ever-present need to shield the truth of his identity from Heimdall’s gaze. Loki is fairly certain that his magic will hold, but if he continues to use it at such an alarming rate, he will be exhausted when the time comes for him to lead Asgard into battle.

Then Heimdall comes to him with news that he has seen another Infinity Stone on Earth.

Loki slips down to Earth that night.

It is easy enough for him to slip into the new base Thor and his foolhardy compatriots have established. Once he reaches the floor that has been set aside for Thor, Loki conceals himself in multiple layers of invisibility and then – making sure that Heimdall will not be able to see past his enchantment – discards the guise of Odin. It would feel strange, somehow, to wear the form of the Allfather on Earth. But then, he reminds himself, nails biting into his palm, the dark-haired, pale-skinned form he now assumes is no less a costume – no less a lie.

Loki finds Thor in his bedroom, standing at his window with a dark-haired girl standing beside him. It is not Jane Foster. This girl is mortal, but she has a crackling magic at her core that Loki recognizes immediately – it stems from the Infinity Stone in his scepter. He is so fixated on her magical potential that it is a moment before Loki realizes she is crying.

Thor, thrice-cursed, golden prince of Asgard, puts his arm around her shaking shoulders. “I know,” he says, his voice a quiet rumble.

“He was a _fool_ ,” the mortal girl says bitterly. Her voice could cut through steel. “Barton was ready to die for the boy. He should have let Barton die.”

Loki waits for his brother to leap to his comrade’s defense, but Thor does not speak. He simply looks at the mortal, his hand stroking her shoulder.

Thor has changed – in some ways, beyond recognizing. But then, so has Loki.

The mortal lets out an awful sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “It was one life for another,” she says, her breaths coming out harsh and ragged. “And his life was worth more! It makes me sick, to look at Barton and his family and know that he is lauded as a hero while my brother lies cold in the ground.”

“I know,” Thor says again.

“Tell me what it is like for me, then,” the mortal raps out.

“I know how it feels to hear people whisper about your brother and the atrocities he caused, even after he gave his life to save theirs. To force yourself not to slam them into a wall and drive into their minds that he died in their cause, and they should have the decency to keep their gods-cursed mouths from his memory.”

Loki takes the words like a blow to the chest.

The mortal looks equally shocked. “You do know,” she whispers. Then, the words spilling from her lips, she says fiercely, “I want to rip them apart from the inside. I want to tear them apart for not giving my brother his due, for cheering _Tony Stark_ , that murdering bastard – ” She breaks off. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and her voice is choked as she says, “It was my fault. It was my fault, but he is dead.”

Loki clenches his fists as Thor takes her into his arms. “Who should know better than I?” Thor says. “My brother was the cause of far more destruction and death than your brother could have dreamed. I know that my friends are glad he is dead, and I cannot pretend not to understand why. But…he was my brother. And I – I blame myself for what he did.”

“It was my fault,” the mortal whispers. “I know, I know that people in Sokovia are dead because of what I did. And perhaps death is all I deserve. But the fault was _mine_. My brother – he did not deserve…”

Thor kisses her head. “I loved my brother beyond reason, would have forgiven him anything. Perhaps I loved him more than I should have, perhaps I forgave him too much. Believe me, I am far more guilty in this respect than you.”

There is a protracted silence. Loki wants to strike Thor for speaking about him to a mortal girl, for speaking of _forgiving_ him as if there was aught for which Loki desired forgiveness – _Frigga_ , he cannot help but remember. How like Thor, to take upon himself responsibility for Loki’s actions – to assume that _he_ could be so important to Loki. He wants to launch himself at Thor and wrestle him to the ground, but he knows that in such a battle, even taken in surprise, Thor would best him with ease.

Loki will not charge into sure defeat, as Thor might. It is not in his nature to win despite impossible odds.

The mortal pulls away, wiping her face with the heel of her hand. “Thank you,” she says softly. She smiles tremulously at Thor, but there’s a quiet strength in the way she walks out of the room, her eyes red but her back ram-rod straight.

Thor sighs when she leaves and makes for his bed. Loki can see the weariness creasing his face. He waits patiently for Thor to slip into slumber, even though he does not quite know what he is waiting for. Only when soft snores break the silence in the room does Loki realize what he wants to do. He takes a deep breath, fighting his better judgment, and throws the strongest shield he can muster about the room. Then, before he can change his mind or allow reason to retake its hold, he materializes before his brother.

He shakes Thor awake. Thor does not start in surprise, or launch himself up from the bed, or reach out to summon Mjolnir, or any number of things that Loki anticipated. Instead, he looks evenly at Loki and slowly lets out his breath. “I thought I might encounter you tonight,” he says softly.

Loki gropes for his composure. “You think me a dream?” he asks. His voice is not quite steady.

The ghost of a smile flits across Thor’s face. “Am I going mad, at last?” he asks.

“I have thought so for centuries,” Loki snaps. This – this is not what he thought would happen. He does not have the upper hand; Thor has taken that along with the advantage of surprise. Loki can lay out immeasurably complicated plans and wait centuries for them to come into fruition. He can account for the reactions of almost every player in his plans. But he has never been able to anticipate Thor – not when it matters.

Thor laughs. It is not a happy sound. “It is almost like having you back,” he says. But it is clear that he knows it is not the same. Thor might think that he lost Loki to a spear-thrust by Algrim, but Loki knows that the brother Thor misses was lost long before Svartalfheim.

“You were ever a fool,” Loki says, but his voice is not hard enough.

Thor shakes his head. “I miss you, brother.”

“I am not your brother. I never was.”

Loki expects Thor to insist on their kinship, but Thor shakes his head. “I miss you nonetheless,” he says.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you,” Thor says simply, with no hesitation.. He seizes Loki by the shoulders and slams him into the bed. He fists his hands in Loki’s hair, his eyes roving over Loki’s face. “Brother or no, dead or no, I love you.”

Loki kisses Thor. It is not a sweet kiss. It is a hard, bruising kiss, almost painful in its intensity. Loki kisses Thor out of love, out of hate, out of spite, out of desperation – he kisses Thor because he cannot think of what else to do. Thor kisses back, his mouth hot and insisting, his fingers digging into Loki’s scalp. Thor kisses him, but Loki is not such a fool as to believe it is a kiss borne out of love or hate – Thor kisses to convince himself, if only for a moment, that Loki is real. That is all.

That is all it is, for Thor.

Loki pushes Thor away and Thor lets him. Thor sits back on his heels in the bed, his chest heaving. Loki’s own breathing is ragged. He wants Thor to hate him, to love him, to believe that he is real and to grieve his death. He _wants_ – he wants Thor.

“I love you, _brother_ ,” he says cruelly, and makes a small gesture with one hand.

“Loki?” Thor says uncertainly. Exhaustion settles over him like a cloak, and it is easy for Loki to push him back onto the bed. It has always been easy for Loki to fool Thor with his enchantments. One more gesture from Loki and Thor is falling into sleep, his eyelids fluttering as he fights to stay awake.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Thor murmurs.

“It is your dream, your madness, you fool,” Loki says when he can trust himself to speak.

Thor smiles. It is a sweeter smile than Loki remembers. It is a sad smile. “If I can only see you in dreams or in madness,” Thor says quietly.

“You fool,” Loki repeats. His throat is tight.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Yes.” The word bursts from him.

Thor looks as if he wants to speak, but the magical sleep finally overwhelms him and his eyelids flutter closed. Loki perches at the edge of his bed, watching as Thor’s breathing even out and real exhaustion overtakes his magic.

Loki watches Thor for a long, long time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! ♥


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